


Truth Is What We Make It

by JohnAmendAll



Category: Absolute Power - Fandom
Genre: 500 prompts, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:02:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnAmendAll/pseuds/JohnAmendAll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles is in hospital, and Martin has come to visit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truth Is What We Make It

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a '500 Prompts' meme. Prompt 19, from daibhid_c: "19: Fragmented Truths - Charles Prentiss"

Martin McCabe sat down beside the hospital bed, and greeted the patient with a cheery "Afternoon, Charles." 

"Martin," Charles Prentiss replied, with no particular enthusiasm. "If there is anything in the world which could reconcile me to a protracted stay in hospital, it would be the thought that I might be spared your conversational inanities for at least some of the time." 

"Doing all right for yourself, I see." McCabe looked around. "Private room, nice view. And it isn't a 'lengthy stay'. You'll be out in a week or so." 

"And limping around with my leg in plaster for weeks after that." 

"Yes, about that. You said to tell anyone who asked that it was a skiing accident. No-one's going to believe that." 

Prentiss smiled. "They're not supposed to." 

"You'd rather they thought it was a jealous husband? Because that's the story going round now." 

"In a word, Martin: Yes. But you didn't just come here to discuss the world's reaction to my injuries. Something is afoot, and you find yourself in need of a wheeze. It's not to do with the ITV account, is it?" 

"No, it isn't." 

"Good, because their case is hopeless. Their Saturday night schedule is such a triumph of vacuousness that nobody will watch it, whatever publicity we might contrive. You have, I hope, something more interesting?" 

McCabe indicted the 42-inch plasma television that hung on the wall opposite the bed. "I suppose you didn't happen to be watching BBC Parliament this morning?" 

"While there is still breath in my body and enough strength in my arm to reach the remote control, the answer shall remain: No." 

"Well, there was an altercation in the Lobby. Between senior figures." 

"Who?" 

"That's the point." McCabe leaned forward. "Everyone's telling a different story. If you ask Wally Stock—" 

"Which I didn't." 

"He says the Prime Minister punched the Minister for Energy in the jaw." 

"A project of some social value. But it seems unlikely to me, Martin. That seems more like a task he would delegate to his butler. And Stock does have a chip on his shoulder the size of Teesside Airport." 

"I know. But that's what he's going around telling everyone. Sir Hector Brooks, on the other hand, swears blind—" 

"Which, without the right glasses, he would have been." 

"—that the Shadow Chancellor kicked the MP for Taunton West. From behind." 

"Rather him than me. A formidable woman, as I recall." 

"That's one way of putting it." McCabe looked around. "There isn't any claret around here, is there?" 

"No, Martin, there is not. Choices are limited to water or a health tonic I strongly suspect emanates from the Sellafield reprocessing plant." 

McCabe shrugged. "I'll do without, then. Anyway, there must have been fifty MPs in that lobby, and no two tell the same story. That means they're most likely all lying, and the truth is worse than anything they've come up with. Not the sort of thing to enhance the reputation of Parliament. Which is why we now have a commission from the Government to clear things up." 

"They want people to think it was entirely down to the Opposition, I suppose?" 

"That's right." 

"A risky stratagem, Martin. Imagine, if you can bear to, the leader of Her Majesty's Opposition. Not the most athletic of men, to look at him. And now suppose that the Great British Public believes him capable of flooring some hapless Secretary of State with one punch. It could only help his frankly pathetic image." 

"I see your point. I'm not sure he does, though. He's hired us as well, to clear his party's name." 

"Leaving you in need of the aforementioned wheeze." 

"Precisely! The only people left to put the blame on are the tree-huggers, and I can't tell the world it was all down to them, can I? They'd be too busy lighting peace pipes and singing 'Kumbaya.'" 

Prentiss lay back in his bed with a triumphant smile. "You're overcomplicating matters, Martin. The solution in this case is self-evident." 

"Not to me, it isn't." 

"Of course not, Martin. That is why our agency is called Prentiss McCabe, not McCabe Prentiss." 

McCabe frowned. "Spit it out, then." 

⁂

"I think," Charles Prentiss said, pushing a heap of newspapers to one side, "that we may count that as a modest triumph." 

" _Political Gladiators._ " McCabe was flipping through his own set of glowing reviews. "The public seemed to love it — especially that bit when the Prime Minister got tangled up in the swinging-rope-thing. And I never realised the Secretary of State for Communities and Local Government was such a dab hand with an oversized ear-bud." 

Prentiss nodded. "It's certainly done ITV's ratings no harm, either." 

"In a way, it's a pity we had to make it a one-off." 

"Always leave the public wanting more, Martin. But I think we might just have found the format for the televised debates at the next election. The public do seem to like the idea of our politicians belting each other with gigantic pieces of foam rubber, don't they?" 

"I suppose they think it does less harm than trying to run the country. Oh, by the way, that Shand woman rang up to wish you a speedy recovery." 

" _Did_ she indeed?" 

"She said your nonsense about skiing didn't fool her for a minute, and what was the real story?" 

"Martin, you didn't tell her?" 

"Of course not. How can I, when you didn't tell me what it is?" 

"Exactly." 

"Anyway, she went off saying she'd find the jealous husband for herself." 

"Splendid. It might take her some time, though." 

"You mean there isn't one? What really happened? Did you trip over a coffee table or something?" 

Prentiss's expression turned to alarm. "Martin, not a word!" 

"Of course not, Charles. Discretion is my middle name." He glanced at his watch. "I think I'd better be getting along to my club. A little claret may be in order." 

"There's no need for that." Prentiss nodded at the cupboard beside his bed. "Take a look in there." 

McCabe opened the cupboard, discovering two glasses and a promising-looking bottle. 

"I won't ask you how you managed to smuggle vintage claret into a hospital from your sickbed," he said, as he filled the glasses. "You might tell me." 

Prentiss smirked. "Never say Charles Prentiss is short of a wheeze, should one be required." 

"Here's to wheezes." McCabe raised his glass. "And all other dirty tricks." 

Prentiss raised his own glass. "Provided they're _our_ dirty tricks, of course."


End file.
